Wednesday, June 22, 2011
When I was younger, and starry-eyed and full of poetry, I used to press wildflowers between books, especially between the leaves of my Norton's Anthology tome of poetry. I can still open that book, and find leaves or flowers pressed between. I have become a little more responsible and a little more jaded, but I still find the beauty in wildflowers.
Wildflowers have their own iambic pentameter about them. Their seeds become inevitably airborne, and if they land in a place where the climate, soil conditions are just right, they will take root, and spread their beauty in their new home. They are not pretentious, and often hide in crevices or blend in with the scenery.
I have always felt like a wildflower, and although my wildness has tempered itself a bit, my need for adventure and taking flight has not. So, we traveled last weekend to Weaverville, California, where my parents moved, to celebrate Father's Day. My mother had to write a sermon for Sunday, as she is the minister of a small, quaint congregation there; so my brother, my husband, my father and I took off for a hike and we breathed in fresh mountain air, and I stopped for every wildflower. Sure beats a Hallmark card, eh?
I love you, dad...you're my favorite dad ever.